All the time that I need is never quite enough
by awesomeasusual
Summary: Drabbles: All SoMa, all the time


**Summary: He doesn't hate it. Mostly because he gets to unabashedly stare at his meister in a tight leotard.**

* * *

He should have been sleeping. Or practicing guitar. Or- fuck it all- he could have been jacking off to the dulcet sounds of his meister in taking shower (he was _that_ desperate for action, to his eternal shame).

He supposes that it is a sign of the loyalty he has for his meister.

Also, he is whipped as fuck.

Black Star takes the piss out of him on the regular, citing the serious lack of pussy he gets and the sheer amount of work Soul puts into the relationship. It's a crime against manhood, Black Star says (or rather, shouts to the universe) to be willing to wear tights and not even try to get into Maka's leotard.

Of all the things Soul thought he would be doing on a Sunday morning, a ballet class was not one of them.

The pianist in the room hits the wrong note and Soul shakes the sleep from his head. It's his and Maka's turn anyway.

Soul grips Maka, his hand gripping her rib cage and inner thigh, and lifts her above his head, he carefully eyes her position. Her arms are extended before her, graceful and steady. Her legs stretch out in the opposite direction, unending. He concentrates on holding her up, but can't help the thoughts of the view of her ass that flit across his mind. He asks himself, _how would they feel in his cupped hands? Are they as firm as they look? How hard would she hit him if he copped a little feel?_

Maka wavered above him slightly. She let out a small "_ah," _bringing Soul swiftly back to Earth. He lowered her down carefully, bending his knees until her toe shoes touched the shining hardwood floors. He slides his hands from her strong thigh up to her hip, coming to rest on her small waist. He doesn't let go, even though their turn in the demonstration is over. He can see the cute flush creeping over to the back of her neck. She doesn't move either. Maka lets him pull her closer. Her back is pressed flush against his chest, and he slowly slides his hands to grip her hips again. She squeaks audibly, and Soul pauses, flinching. He screws his eyes shut, waiting for the quick introduction of her book to his head.

Nothing happens. There is no pain, no concussion. Soul slowly opens his eyes. He can only see his meisters pink ears, and hears her quick breaths. He can feel her lean into him more heavily; he has to wrap his arms around her to keep her up right. He quickly glances around the room. No one is looking at them, all of their fellow students are focused on the ballet teacher, who is gesticulating wildly at the pianist, her words loud and her accent thick. Soul doesn't bother trying to catch any words the teacher says, he's caught a sight of Maka in the mirror.

She looks like she's melting, her face is so red. In his arms, her limbs are relaxed. Her arms are folded over his across her stomach. Her green eyes (a green yet unidentified by man) are hazy; her teeth have worried her bottom lip pink.

That's his job, he thinks briefly. But he gives a little sigh of relief. His breath fans the back of her neck, stirring the blonde hair that has come loose from her bun. Maka shivers slightly, and he hears her "_ah"_ again. It's higher this time, from the back of her throat. Soul wants to laugh. It's so new, so _fascinating_. He wants to see if he can make her do it again. He leans closer to her, until his lips barely graze the shell of her ear—

The entire class shifts at once and the piano starts up again. The incompetent pianist bangs the keys relentlessly, his anger seeping into the music. The music wakes Maka up and she pulls away from Soul. He's left with his arms still up, holding air. She strides towards the front of the class, away from him, her eyes glued to the floor. Soul grimaces and lets his arms fall to his sides. They had a _moment, _he was sure of it. He trudges towards the gilded mirrors and stands in his position behind her. He hesitates before putting his hands on her waist again. He doesn't want to look in the mirror. He doesn't want to see the disgust and shame he knows mars her eyes. But, like stupid magnets, his eyes are dragged to hers. She's staring into the mirror too, boring holes into his face. She's still flushed. He wants to touch her face, feel the heat of her skin under his finger tips.

She reaches back, her hand seeking his. Soul takes it and squeezes it, trying to communicate with the pressure of his hand. She squeezes back, and smiles at him through the mirror.


End file.
